


bits and pieces

by secret_ivy



Series: The Memories Collection [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Don't copy to another site, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Gen, Greg Lestrade Has a Competence Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-05-31 17:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19430308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_ivy/pseuds/secret_ivy
Summary: Outtakes fromthe whole shape of itandhoneyed tea.Some are full memories, others are snippets. I will update the tags as I post.





	1. Whitehall - the barbershop

Whitehall.

A nearby alleyway with two businesses: a barbershop with a single seat and a commercial bakery. 

This is the barbershop.

* * *

He keeps the door locked and the lights off. In his darker moments, Mycroft imagines setting the building on fire. With his lighter, sometimes with Gregory's. 

He considers, once, deleting the memory. It’s a rash desire. He isn't like his brother, not in this aspect.

Given the choice between letting this landmine sit in his mind or willfully removing a memory of Gregory — well, there really isn't a choice. 

* * *

Greg's flat is in shambles.

Mycroft's temples throb when he sees shattered glass on the floor.

An image flashes: _light streaked on Greg’s cheek, flushed, eyes crinkled in humor. Their first Christmas Eve as a couple. The eggnog was -definitely- more rum than anything else_. _“We can fit, maybe, if we’re careful, maybe, two on my sad baby Christmas tree,” Gregory giggled. They manage three ornaments by using one of them in place of the tree topper._

He holds the memory closely, ice against a rapidly rising fever.

Anthea, gun out, is sweeping through the rest of the flat, but whoever came for Gregory is long gone.

Mycroft scans the rest of the flat.

There’s a smattering of dried blood against the bottom of the sofa. Gregory fought, of course he did. It didn’t matter that it was 3-on-1. Likely all male. One of them blond, crew cut. They subdued him, while a fourth perpetrator waited outside with a car. They have a head start of an hour, no more than two.

Too much physical evidence. Rushed. Amateurs, but not completely disorganized.

Gregory recently testified against Robert Landis. Local gang member. Armed robbery turned double murder. Two older brothers, both blond, one with a crew cut.

Generally, Mycroft doesn't keep personal track of Greg's cases unless they overlap with his brother's. Both in respect for his partner's work and because his security would red flag any immediate danger if necessary. 

Landis had tried to spit on the detective as he left the stand.

( _“Bastard wasn’t sorry about the killings at all. They were just uni kids," Greg had whispered, muscles not unwinding, tucked inside Mycroft’s arms._ )

His hands clench. Hallway cameras damaged. Gregory had just finished a double-shift ( _exhausted, 3-on-1_ ). Next-door neighbor out to visit family, Scotland.

No, not disorganized at all. 

Anthea makes her way back to where Mycroft is standing in the living room, staring at the sofa. She re-holsters her gun and pulls out her mobile to make a call. 

After a few minutes, she hangs up. Mycroft still hasn’t acknowledged her presence. She follows his stare and sees the blood. Her face smooths out — becomes the flat side of a straight razor. “Sir, the security team is on their way up. Waters and Quinn are pulling nearby CCTV.”

Mycroft lifts his eyes and looks at her.

He suddenly recalls that she’s the one who first pointed out that his interest in Gregory had become more than professional in nature. ( _“He prefers the duck fried rice from the place off Whitcomb. They close in 20 minutes, but your Friday evening looks open. Sir."_ )

But now isn't the time for sentiment. "Start with Robert Landis. L-A-N-D-I-S, convicted last month of armed robbery and homicide. One of Gregory’s cases, but don’t exclude someone we know using this as convenient cover.”

Anthea steps in front of Mycroft, a foot apart. 

Her expression doesn't change. "We'll find him."

He doesn't know what his face does, but Anthea nods once and goes to meet the security team in the hallway. 

_Now isn't the time for sentiment._ He takes in a deep breathe and exhales, slow. He has one goal.

* * *

Mycroft places the following eleven hours into combs and scissors and trimmers. He sets down the knot of **ragefearfailure** — eighteen stitches on the outside of Gregory’s left thigh, skin around them an ugly red with infection, the worst of his physical injuries — in the supply area at the back of the shop.

In real life, he doesn't walk pass that alleyway again.


	2. Whitehall - the bakery

Whitehall.

A nearby alleyway with two businesses: a barbershop with a single seat and a commercial bakery.

This is the bakery.

* * *

It's his fault.

* * *

The first indication of something not being right: Greg hasn't texted back yet.

Mycroft Holmes, more than anyone, understands that work gets in the way of timely responses. Family gets in the way. Strangers with unfortunate timing and bad luck get in the way. Freak accidents, dead phone batteries, etc.

But it's been more than half a day. Even before they began a romantic relationship, Gregory made a point of responding back within a few hours, even if it was just a confirmation of message received. The combination of work and years of knowing Sherlock saw to that habit.

Their last missives were good morning texts - the most recent one from Greg had ended with a line of glossy heart emojis. It was so childish, yet his chest had warmed and if the driver noticed his ridiculous smile on the way to work, well, he was paid to be discreet. 

They had seen each other just last night.

_He makes them dinner reservations at Valencia. Tapas. 'Extensive wine selection' and 'no flowers, but candlelight for that special mood ;)' the reviews had promised._

_He knows Gregory enjoys bold flavors, a fact reinforced by the terribly indecent sound the man makes at the first taste of the gambas al ajillo._

_The waiter asks if they want to see the dessert menu. Gregory catches the longing on his face, despite how quickly he hides it. His lover is no fool._

_"Have something with dark chocolate and a bit of fruit? That would be perfect, ta." After the waiter leaves, he receives a gentle, knowing look. "I won't be able to finish it by myself," Gregory reaches across the table, brushes his fingertips along the back of Mycroft's hand, feather light, "Do me a favor, My, help me out."_

_A decadent slice of dark chocolate chiffon cake and a ramekin filled with a small mountain of jewel-bright berries. He restricts himself to just two bites and half the fruit. Gregory doesn't push (oh, he pushes in other ways, making that indecent noise again, damn the man); he finishes the rest of the cake and fruit. They finish their wine and grab their coats from check-in._

_It's still early in the night when they arrive at Greg's flat. He walks the man to the front door. They both have work the next day - video call with the consulate in Shanghai and a hellishly early meeting with the Chief Superintendent._

_It doesn't stop Gregory from pulling him in, closing the door, and sandwiching Mycroft between the door and god, yes, let me taste your mouth._

_Their goodnight kiss starts deep and easy before turning deliciously sloppy. He feels drunk on tart raspberries and earthy chocolate, the heady smell of Gregory's cologne and hot wandering hands stroking his face, back, chest, dangerously low on his abdomen. It takes a long time for them to pull apart._

So, last night had went well. This morning was also positive. It's not that he's assuming the worst.

He sends: **The meal last night was wonderful. Shall we try the rest of the menu this weekend? [15:06]**

At 15:37, he receives a text. It's not from Gregory.

Anthea: **GL in Urgent Care. I've requested a car. [15:37]**

* * *

"Honestly, it looks worse than it is," Gregory Lestrade jokes, in a hospital bed with a goddamn IV in his right arm.

"Gregory."

"Really, another bag of saline and a long nap and I'll be right as rain."

There's a rectangle of medical tape on the back of Greg's left hand. _They tried his non-dominate side first. Rapid dehydration - veins smaller than usual, drip didn't take the first time._

"Gregory." Both of his hands are gripping the handle of his umbrella, a tell, but he can't help himself. 

The other man sighs, waves his right hand, signaling that Mycroft, "Please," should cross the room and come closer to the bed. When the elder Holmes is in reach, Greg gently uncurls one of Mycroft's hands and slots their now unhindered hands together. 

He stares into brown eyes, dark shadows underneath them. At the medical tape. His lips tighten. 

"I'm ok," Greg says, stroking his thumb against his lover's. "I just got unlucky."

Unlucky is being one of nine people who are now in one of London's hospitals, hooked to an IV, not being able to keep food down. In the next 24 hours, five more people will be hospitalized with acute food poisoning, but it'll take another half day after that before the media figures out the connection to _Valencia_. 

"Have they mentioned when you might be well enough to leave?" 

"Soon, actually, despite how I look. Not much they can do for me except tell me to keep my fluid intake at high." Greg's thumb is still stroking Mycroft's hand. "And they don't want to prescribe antibiotics if I can clear it on my own. All that running around after your brother had to do some good for my immune system." 

Mycroft feels his face softening a touch.

"At the very least," he says, instead of everything else clamoring in his throat, to see Gregory smile.


	3. a parting shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was slotted to be a possible chapter 4 for _honeyed tea_ , but then I got struck by inspiration on the train and wrote 500+ words in less than 30 minutes. **That** particular replacement chapter is getting flushed out and edited to death at the moment (TBA).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lady_Cleo, who made a comment about spilled tea and poor Greg in _the whole shape of it_. Unexpected, but thank you for the bunny.

Greg keeps his footing, looks down, then looks back at Sally, at the almost empty cup in her hand, at the light brown drops clinging to the lip of it.

"That was cruel, Donovan, even for you." He honestly doesn't know if he's about to yell or laugh hysterically.

It's ridiculous, the way the whole day has been going. His work computer is still "updating" (more than 2 hours!), one of the new constables got assaulted dealing with a carjacking (Thankfully, the stab vest did its job and Taylor is going home with only a few bruises and small nick on his arm), and someone from internal investigations has been sniffing around for the last several days, making everyone more on edge than usual.

And now this. A blind corner turn and a lukewarm cup of tea. A case briefing in 5 minutes, sooner now.

"You have a spare kit in your office," Sally points out, then eyes the splash area that managed to include not only the majority of his shirt, but also the top of his trousers. She has the decency to look a smudge contrite, Greg notes. He sighs.

"I hate you." He's swinging toward amused, feeling the frustration drain out of him. An accident is an accident. His sergeant is also right; he always keeps a full change of clothes at the station in case of long nights or messy crime scenes. At least this happened near his office and not in the middle of the desk floor or during the upcoming meeting. Silver linings and all that. "Get the meeting start pushed out 10 minutes, will you? Tell'em to take the time to get a decent cup. The day's been a chore for all of us."

Donovan nods, both in acceptance and apology, and they split off.

Greg snags the bag with his extra clothes from his office and makes his way to the nearest restroom. The locker rooms have more space and the chance of a quick full body rinse, but with everything going on today, he doesn't have the luxury.

When he gets to the restroom, there's one stall occupied. From the gap between floor and the bottom of the stall door: Brown oxfords, barely scuffed. Dark blue trousers with thin white strips, hemmed and pressed.

 _Lawyer_ , he shrugs, takes a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, and moves into the biggest stall. Greg strips out of his shirt. Giving a look of disgust at the floor, he decides to sacrifice the shirt and lets it drop in front of him. The top and sleeves are still dry, so as he slips out of his shoes, his socked feet don't physically touch the floor. _Going to just have to burn the shirt, won't I._

As he pulls his trousers off, he hears movement in the other occupied stall. The toilet flushing. Greg tunes it out and focuses on drying his skin and getting fresh clothes on as quickly as possible.

It isn't until he's out of the stall, dirty clothes tucked into the bag, and heading to the sink that he realizes the other toilet is still occupied. The stall door is closed in the mirrored reflection in front of him.

_Shy? Socially awkward about restrooms in police stations? Maybe not a lawyer then._

As he's washing his hands, he hears it - the lock of the stall unlatching. But the door doesn't open. A pause. The door jiggles, but remains closed. Another pause. Another jiggle, a tad more aggressive this time. The stall door remains firmly closed.

Greg's eyes widen. _No way. Absolutely no way._

The poor bloke must realize that Greg is still in the restroom. Brown Oxfords still hadn't said anything, despite the reality of the situation.

He still has time before he has to really sprint to the briefing. The bad luck streaking today needs to be stopped.

"Hey, do you need help? I can flag someone from facilities."

There's a sigh from the other side of the door. Silence for a full minute.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

Greg blinks. "Mr. Holmes?"

He's in an alternate dimension. There's no other explanation. The most powerful man he knows is trapped in a toilet stall.

Greg bursts out laughing.

"Lestrade!" He can imagine Mycroft's indignant face, can imagine _the pout_.

"Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry, I just, this is just so ridiculous." There are literal tears in his eyes.

"Detective, this isn't a laughing matter," _It really, really is_ , "I need to get out of here."

Greg gets his giggles under control. "Yeah, I know. Give me a minute, I'll go get facilities for you."

Before Greg can step toward the exit, Mycroft says, tone as serious as he can muster, "No."

Greg stops and waits.

There's another sigh. "Come closer."

Greg frowns, but steps toward the closed stall.

"Please take this and step back." From the above the stall comes the bottom of a familiar black umbrella. Greg takes a hold of it with both hands. _Huh, a bit heavier than it looks._ He steps back, stopping almost equally between the stall and sink area.

_Is he going to kick the door out? Break the lock?_

Long fingers appear at the top of the stall walls, gripping. A light grunt and the oxfords and legs disappear from view. In a move mostly reserved for gymnasts and parkour experts, Mycroft pulls himself up, uses the stuck door to push off and up, gets himself perched at the top of one of the stall dividers, pivots, and now he's strolling pass Greg to the sink area.

The detective blinks, mouth falling slightly open. As the water runs, he turns.

Mycroft is flicking excess water from his hands. Takes a paper towel and calmly dabs his hands dry. There's a slight flush on the back of his neck.

Their eyes meet in the mirror. Mycroft's face is an unreadable mask except for his blue eyes. _Mischief?_

The minor government official retrieves his umbrella from Greg's slack grip and walks toward the exit. 

"No one will ever believe you," the man softly claims, a parting shot, and is gone.

Greg is late for the briefing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When did you stop seeing me as the 'Ice Man'?_


	4. interrogation / confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg asks a question. It isn't a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick snippet.  
> Follow up to chapter 3 of _the whole shape of it_ , but written closer to the style in _honeyed tea_.  
> 

After their relationship takes a more intimate turn, he asks Mycroft about James Hanson's killer. Once and only once.

The detective had no intention to follow up, had accepted the situation when the case was pulled. _He promised._

Maybe it was because they were standing in Mycroft's private room in Diogenes. Maybe it was the warm meal in his stomach and the second pour of scotch in his hand. Maybe it was because Mycroft was in the same tie he wore that day.

Maybe he's needed to know the whole time. Maybe, maybe, too many maybes. 

The question slips out.

Mycroft's face collapses, a involuntary pained noise escapes.

Greg moves forward without thought.

The detective - no, it needs to be _Gregory_ here - takes both of their glasses and places them on the desk. The movement frees his hands to lay on Mycroft's shoulders, sliding down over cotton and familiar muscle until reaching long fingers. They clasp hands, a grounding point.

Mycroft's eyes harden, a turtle tucking into its shell. 

Greg doesn't look away, something telling him that doing so would be the same as throwing away this soft thing between them. A brutally quick death, with this moment marked as the start.

So he keeps looking into Mycroft's eyes and waits for an answer, whether it is the truth, or a lie, or more silence.

 _If he doesn't answer_ , Greg suddenly realizes, a sharp pain in his chest, _will I leave?_

Greg doesn't know how much time passes, but as he shifts his hands, almost as if pulling away, the other man clamps down, refuses to let him go.

 _You can't lie to me, can you? Not this close, not anymore_.

"It's done, Gregory."

He sees the fear in Mycroft's eyes. A slice of self-righteousness. And a barbed viciousness that tells too much. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

It's a confession, like one wrestled out in one of his interrogation rooms. Because he asked. 

Greg forces himself to take a breathe in. Another one. He needs air to respond.

He squeezes the hands holding his and doesn't look away.

"Good." 

And if he held a matching viciousness behind his eyes and in his teeth and in the lowest part of his heart, that's no one's business but theirs.


End file.
